"When?" Paul demanded, afraid that she was lying to him, that it was a ploy to be rid of him. In January, when Paul had wanted to get off the phone with Deirdre, she had pleaded with him to stay on the line.
"Later. Tonight," she said.
"I want to know when."
She told him she'd call at ten.
The idea came to him immediately after getting off the phone, the receiver still in his hand. He left the library, went to the nearest RadioShack. "I need a phone," he told the salesman. "And an adapter with two jacks."
It was a night Sang worked at the bookstore; as usual, she was home by nine. She said nothing to Paul when she came into the kitchen to get her mail.
"I called Deirdre," Paul said.
"Why don't you stop involving yourself this way?" Sang said evenly, leafing through a catalogue.
"She's calling me at ten o'clock," Paul said. "If you want, you can listen in without her knowing. I got another phone and hooked it up to our line."
She dropped the catalogue, noticing the second phone. "Jesus, Paul," she hissed. "I can't fucking believe you."
She went into her room; at five to ten she came out and sat next to Paul. He'd set the phones together on the table. At exactly one minute past ten, both phones rang. Paul picked up one. "Hello?"
"It's me," Deirdre said.
He nodded, motioning to Sang, and slowly, carefully, Sang picked up the other phone and put it to her ear without allowing it to touch her. She held it unnaturally, the bottom of the receiver turned away from her mouth, pointed toward her shoulder.
"Like I said, Paul, I'm sorry for calling you. I shouldn't have," Deirdre said.
She seemed relaxed, willing to talk, in no apparent rush. Paul relaxed a little, too. "But you did."
"Yes."
"And you cried about Farouk."
"Yes."
"And then you made me into a liar." She was silent.
"You denied the whole thing." "It was Freddy's idea."
"And you went along with it," Paul said. He was looking at Sang. She was pressing her top teeth into her lower lip in a way that looked painful.
"What was I supposed to do, Paul?" Deirdre said. "He was furious when he found out I'd called you. He refused to see me. He unplugged his phone. He wouldn't answer the door."
Sang put a palm against the table's edge, as if to push it away, but she ended up pushing herself back in her chair, scraping the linoleum. Paul put a finger to his lips, but then he realized that, to Deirdre, it was he who'd made the sound. She kept talking.
"Listen, Paul, I'm sorry you're in the middle of all this. I really am sorry I called. It was just that Freddy kept telling me Sang was his cousin, and when I asked him to introduce me to her he refused. I didn't care at first. I figured I wasn't the only woman in his life. But then I fell in love with him." She wanted to believe him, she explained. She was a thirty-five-year-old woman, already married and divorced. She didn't have time for this.
"But I've ended it," she said, matter-of-factly. "You know, there was a point when I actually believed he couldn't live without me. That's what he does to women. He depends on them. He asks them to do a hundred things, makes them believe his life won't function without them. That was him this afternoon when you called, still wanting to see me, still wanting to keep me on the side. He doesn't have any friends, you see. Only lovers. I think he needs them, the way other people need a family or friends." She sounded reasonable and reflective now, as if she were describing an affair she'd had years before. Sang's eyes were closed and she was shaking her head slowly from side to side. The dog was barking.
"That's my dog," Deirdre said. "He's always hated Freddy. He's the size of a football, but every time Freddy comes over he makes me put a guardrail across the stairs."
Sang inhaled sharply. She put the receiver down quietly on the table, then she picked it up again.
"I should go," Paul said.
"Me, too," Deirdre agreed. "I think you need to tell her now."
He was startled, afraid Deirdre had discovered his trick, that she knew that Sang was listening in. "Tell her what?"
"Tell her about me and Farouk. She deserves to know. It sounds like you're a good friend of hers."
Deirdre hung up, and for a long time Paul and Sang sat there, listening to the silence. He had cleared himself with Sang, and yet he felt no relief, no vindication. Eventually, Sang hung up her phone and stood up, slowly, but made no further movements. She looked sealed off from things, holding herself as if she still needed to be perfectly stealthy, as if the slightest sound or gesture would betray her presence.
"I'm sorry," Paul said finally.
She nodded and went to her room, shutting the door. After a while he followed her, stood outside. "Sang? Do you need anything?"
He remained there, waiting for her to reply. He heard her moving around the room. When the door opened, he saw that she had changed, into a black top with long tight-fitting sleeves. Her pink raincoat was draped over her arm, her purse hanging over her shoulder. "I need a ride."
In the car, she directed him, saying what to do and where to turn only at the last possible minute. They drove through All-ston and down Storrow Drive. "There," she said, pointing. It was an ugly high-rise, bereft of charm and yet clearly exclusive, on the Cambridge side of the river. She got out of the car and started walking.
Paul followed her. "What are you doing?"
She speeded up. "I need to talk to him." She spoke in a monotone.
"I don't know, Sang."
She walked even faster, her shoes clicking on the pavement.
The lobby was filled with beige sofas and potted trees. There was an African doorman sitting at the desk who smiled at them, recognizing Sang. He was listening to a radio tuned to the news in French.
"Evening, Miss."
"Hello, Raymond."
"Getting cold again, Miss. Maybe rain later."
"Maybe."
She kept her finger pressed on the elevator button until it came, while she fixed her hair in the mirror opposite. On the tenth floor, they stopped, then walked to the end of the hallway. The doors were dark brown, thickly varnished. She tapped the door knocker, which was like a small brass picture frame hinged to the surface. Inside, there was the sound of a television. Then there was silence.
"It's me," she said.
She tapped it again. Five consecutive taps. Ten. She pressed the top of her head against the door. "I heard her, Farouk. I heard Deirdre. She called Paul, and I heard her." Sang's voice was quavering.
"Please open the door." She tried the knob, a strong metal knob, which would not budge.
There were footsteps, a chain being undone. Farouk opened the door, a day's stubble on his face. He wore a flecked fisherman's sweater, corduroy pants, black espadrilles on bare feet. He looked nothing like a philanderer, just bookish and slight. "I did not invite you here," he said acidly when he saw Paul.
In spite of all he knew, Paul was stung by the words, unable to speak in his own defense.
"Please leave," Farouk said. "Please, for once, try to respect our privacy."
"She asked me," Paul said.
Farouk lurched forward, arms extended rigidly in front of him, pushing Paul away as if he were a large piece of furniture.
Paul took a step back, then resisted, grabbing Farouk's wrists. The two men fell to the floor of the hallway, Paul's glasses flying onto the carpet. It was easy for Paul to pin Farouk to the ground, to dig his fingers into his shoulders. Paul squeezed them tightly, through the thick wool of the sweater, feeling the give of the tendons, aware that Farouk was no longer resisting. For a moment, Paul lay on top of him fully, subduing him like a lover. He looked up, searching for Sang, but she was nowhere. He looked back at the man beneath him, a man he barely knew, a man he hated. "All she wants is for you to admit it," Paul said. "I think you owe her that."
Farouk spat at Paul's face, a cold spray that made Paul recoil. Farouk pushed him off, went into his apartment, and slammed the door. Other doors along the hallway began to open. Paul could hear Farouk fastening the chain. He found his glasses and stood up, pressed his ear to the varnished wood. He heard crying, then a series of objects falling. At one point he could hear Farouk saying, "Stop it, please, please, it's not as bad as you think." And then Sang saying, "How many times? How many times did you do it? Did you do it here on the bed?"